


Slip

by openhearts



Category: Juno (2007)
Genre: F/M, POV Second Person, from the incredibly fucked up mind of Mark Loring, seriously I forgot how much this matched his fucked upness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-01-26
Updated: 2009-01-26
Packaged: 2019-07-29 10:02:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 562
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16261931
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/openhearts/pseuds/openhearts
Summary: It's a slip and it's a game.





	Slip

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted on Livejournal on 1/26/2009

She comes, just a little bigger. Spring is beginning and her legs are bare. Pale, round, gleaming, bare under a cotton skirt reaching wide over her knees. Lace looks accusingly out from under when she sits and crosses her legs. A sneaker bobs merrily through the air of the living room, pressed full with light from a white sky.

It’s movies or tv shows or music or something. Books maybe. Maybe this time it’s books. You’re not listening. She keeps coming over and barely laughing, closing the door like it’s hers and grasping your forearm in approval or disapproval. Little hand, short nails. Touch.

Your hand’s playing hide and seek with her knee, and the lace is a stupid hiding place.

Found.

“What’s this?”

“Um, it’s a slip. Y’know, grown up ladies wear them under skirts sometimes.”

“Grown up ladies.”

It’s a slip. It’s a slip. It’s a slip.

“And what’s this?”

It’s a bra strap. Screaming obscenities in ecstasy when it’s touched. Black. Black shining strap, black fading Metallica t-shirt. Touch it all. It’s begging, this fabric.

“Bra strap?” She drawls the words over her lips.

“This?”

Lip. It’s her lower lip. Something like an oval that matches your thumbprint.

“This’s a weird game daddio.” But her eyes are in yours and maybe she can smell the coffee on your fingers or your breath, since they’re both touching her mouth right now.

Something light and low like a grunt comes from you or her or maybe both. Maybe this time it’s both. You’re not listening. She’s grasping your forearm. Approval in her little hand with the short nails. Touch, with tongues.

And now it’s the place above the vein in her throat, it’s the side of her elbow, it’s the grasp and lean of your hand around her ankle and her body climbing to sit in your lap. It’s a cool palm on the back of your neck and that precious three-inch stretch on the inside of her right thigh that makes her make that sound.

“What are we doing?”

It’s a quiet voice you haven’t heard before.

“Just . . . playing. It’s okay.” There’s a ‘hush’ in this voice, a ‘be a good girl,’ and she agrees so easily.

It’s not movies or tv shows or books. It’s a slip, and it’s a game.

There’s some very hot place under that slip, and the very center of it is home. Now it’s a race to see who can get there first without getting captured by a hand on an opposing team.

You always win at this game. Hot, wet home.

The slick and the stick of fingers nearly rings throughout the living room. It should be downstairs, in the lair, in your batcave. But here in the living room, here in her mouth, here, in your hair. She’s on top and the sounds are small but your dick’s hard against the under belly of this thing that doesn’t feel like a part of her. She’s sucking on your tongue in rhythm with your fingers. There’s a hand in your hair and one in hers.

Maybe the door will open. Maybe the garage, or the front door, or the back while her back is small and hot and aching under your hands. It’ll open just when her thighs slide open for you and the pain on her face will feel so, so good.


End file.
